


Physical Education

by betts



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Adjacent, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Barely Legal, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve, Dirty Talk, Explicit Consent, Facials, Frottage, Gym Teacher Brock Rumlow, HYDRA Trash Party, Hipster Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Name-Calling, Possessive Behavior, Semi-Public Sex, Sparring, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tongue Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock might think the occasional less-than-pious thought about some of his students, but he’s never acted on it, and he doesn’t plan to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Physical Education

**Author's Note:**

> I had a really bad week and a lot of ugly feelings going around so this is what I did with them.

These pretty little twinks are gonna be the goddamn death of him one day, he swears it. God, especially Rogers, the runt of the year. He’s slim and small and has an honest-to-god doctor’s note to keep him from running a mile. And he’s a troublemaker too, always picking fights he can’t win, pierced and tattooed to compensate for his size—a lip ring and gauges and an abstract pattern up his arm.

The worst part, or maybe the best part, is that he’s always bruised up to hell. The kid can take a beating, that’s for damn sure, and Brock can’t tell if he wants to help the poor guy or hurt him worse just to see what he looks like when he begs.

Plus he’s got eyelashes a mile long and the prettiest little cockslut mouth Brock has ever fucking seen.

It’s dodgeball day, and Steve is in the back corner, on his cell phone. Whenever he gets hit with the ball, he gives whoever hit him a venomous glare. And even though the kid couldn’t knock out a teddy bear, eventually the other kids lay off him.

Today he’s got one of the worst shiners Brock’s seen on him yet, a black and blue blossom across his temple and under his eye. Brock isn’t one for art, but it’s a thing of beauty, that bruise. He simultaneously wants to soothe it and slap it.

Brock picks up his clipboard from the bleachers and checks his notes— _yes,_ he takes fucking notes, he’s a goddamn professional—and he trails a finger across the grid line by Steve’s name. It’s halfway through the quarter and the kid has racked up zero participation points for the class. If he doesn’t get off his damn phone, he’s definitely going to fail.

Brock brings his whistle to his lips and blows it to signal the end of class. The kids all run into the locker rooms to change, Steve trailing behind them.

“Rogers!” he shouts, and Steve stops, turns to him and gives him the well-practiced apathetic stare that seems inherent in all holier-than-thou senior-year punks. “Get over here.”

Steve rolls his eyes and walks—actually _drags his fucking feet_ _—_ over to Brock. His basketball shorts are too big and his baggy t-shirt is riddled with holes. He doesn’t even have proper gym shoes, just a pair of those fucking Vans that probably fall apart after a 5k—not that Steve Rogers would ever run a 5k.

“Yeah?” he asks, voice too deep for his small frame.

“That’s ‘Yes, Mr. Rumlow’ to you, kid,” Brock replies.

 _“Yes, Mr. Rumlow?”_ Steve repeats with a sardonic sneer.

“You know you ain’t doing real well in class, right?” Brock asks.

Steve shrugs. “Who cares? It’s gym.”

“Well your GPA is gonna care when you fail, and I’m guessing the admissions departments of—what, Reed? UC Berkeley? Antioch?—won’t be thrilled about it either.”

It’s the first time Steve shifts a bit, lets a tiny crack break through the tough-guy facade. The little wrinkle of worry between his eyebrows smooths over as his expression quickly changes to something softer, something darker. He bites his lip around the ring in it and asks, “Alright, what can I do to…” He flicks his eyes down to Brock’s gym shorts and back up again, “...improve my grade?”

Like he said, these twinks are gonna be the motherfucking death of him.

“Jesus, kid, pull your head out of the fucking gutter alright?” Brock might think the occasional less-than-pious thought about some of his students, but he’s never acted on it, and he doesn’t plan to. “Where’d you get that shiner, huh?”

The pissed-off, defensive attitude returns in a flash. “None of your fucking business.”

“Don’t you use that language with me, Rogers, or this conversation’s gonna end in Pierce’s office. I’m trying to help you out here.”

With a noncommittal shrug, Steve replies, “Got into a fight.”

“Lost a fight, looks like.”

“Saw a kid getting pushed around. Thought I’d say something about it.” Of course he’s a fucking hero, the fucking twerp. _Of course_.

“Happen a lot with you?”

Steve mutters, “I can hold my own.”

“Sure you can,” Brock replies, “but how about we kill two birds with one stone here. You stay after school two days a week for the rest of the quarter for extra credit, and I give you some fighting lessons. Sound good?”

Steve eyes him warily. “What’s in it for you?”

Brock thumps him on the back and jostles him a bit, grinning. “Teacher of the year.”

***

“C’mon. C’mon, hit me,” Brock says, hands at his sides in loose fists, bouncing from foot to foot on a blue gym mat.

“I can’t just...hit you,” Steve says, standing there stock-still like an idiot.

“Why not? You can’t hurt me.” To prove it, Brock shoves him at the shoulder a little bit. Steve wobbles and catches his balance again. This poor fucking kid.

“I know, but—”

“But nothin’. Han shot first, right? Don’t tell me you’re too much of a pretty little angel to start some of these fights you’re always gettin’ in.”

A flush creeps up Steve’s face, a fierceness behind his sharp blue eyes. “Yeah, but they all do something to piss me off first.”

“Is that all you need? Let’s see what we got here.” Brock shoves him again and Steve catches his footing quicker this time. “You run like a girl.”

Steve scoffs. “Women are fantastic runners. In fact, in the 1996 Olympics—”

Brock shoves him again, this time hard enough that Steve stumbles off the mat. “Let’s try something else.” He takes a moment to think through everything he knows about the social hierarchy of the high school, and it finally dawns on him. “Barnes.”

Steve’s expression immediately clouds over. “What about him?”

“He was in the grade above yours, right? Went ahead and shipped himself off already, I hear. Bet you miss him. Bet you haven’t heard from him in a real long time.”

Steve’s hands clench into fists. “Rumlow…”

“Gotta miss those pretty lips sucking off your tiny dick. He’s probably off in the desert bending over for some other poor bastard—”

Steve barrels forward and swings his fists in a flurry of rage and pitiful blows. Brock dodges and blocks them easily, then manhandles Steve down to the mat, his knee against the kid’s knobby spine and one arm pulled behind him.

“Nice try,” Brock says with a smile. He climbs off Steve and stands back up. Steve rolls over and glares at him, and Brock holds out a hand for him to take. “Let’s do it again.”

***

It takes three solid weeks before Steve lands a hit. And when he does, it’s enough to split Brock’s cheekbone, blood gushing out.

Brock touches his face and brings bloodied fingers in front of his vision. “Would ya look at that,” he says absently.

And Steve, precious Steve, has landed so few hits in his life that he actually says, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Brock lets out a laugh and thumps him on the shoulder. “Nah, you did good, kid. Just do that every time, alright? C’mon, let’s go again.”

“But don’t you wanna…?” Steve asks.

“Nah, pain gives me focus. Hit me again.”

***

Eventually, after they’ve mastered landing a punch, they move on to grappling.

And that’s when everything goes to hell.

Brock vaguely remembers what it’s like to be a teenager, getting hard-ons at the worst times. But it still throws him for a fucking loop when he has Steve pinned to the mat, his thigh between the kid’s legs, and a decidedly half-hard prick rubbing up against him as Steve squirms under his grip.

He’s never been a patient man, and he’s even less a kind man, so his gut instinct is to tease the poor guy about it, press his thigh a little harder and rasp out, “I ain’t doing my job right if you’re enjoying it this much.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve grits out, struggling.

Brock chuckles a dirty laugh by Steve’s ear. “You here to fight me or rub one off on my leg like a bitch in heat?”

“You wish you could get a lay as good as me, you ancient piece of shit.” Steve’s body is wiry and sweaty, and despite the bite to his words, he’s still grinding against Brock’s leg, wanton and filthy.

“That a challenge, kid? ‘Cause let me tell you—”

Steve surges forward and kisses him.

It takes Brock by such surprise that he kisses back, lets go of Steve’s arms and grabs him by the throat instead. He shoves his tongue in Steve’s pretty mouth and tastes the metal of his tongue stud. The kid is flat-out humping his leg now, panting out these hitched breaths, his hands balled up in Brock’s sweaty shirt.

God help him, Brock’s going to hell for this. He sucks Steve’s lip between his teeth and rocks onto his crotch. “What’re you gonna do? Gonna come in your panties like a little kid? Right on my leg like a needy fuckin’ slut?”

Steve hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut and eyelashes fanning over porcelain cheekbones.

Anybody could walk in the gym right now and see what’s going on. Brock’s only saving grace is that Steve is eighteen, so at least he won’t go to jail, but he’ll definitely get canned for this. And Jesus, Steve is so goddamn pretty, writhing under him, fucking onto him. Brock looks between their bodies and can see the tip of Steve’s cock jutting out of his shorts, all flush-red and leaking.

“C’mon, come all over yourself like a messy little whore. That’s right, that’s right…” Brock chants. Steve’s body tenses for a beat and then shudders all over, coming with a shout that Brock has to silence with a palm over his mouth.

Brock continues rubbing him through it, until his body twitches a little. Then he rolls off Steve, his back on the mat, staring up at the beams of the ceiling and the exposed lightbulbs.

“Alright,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose to regain his composure. He stands up and risks a glance at Steve, who stares up at him with a doe-eyed innocent expression— _god_ , so fucking young—like he’s seriously waiting for Brock to tell him he did good. The kid’s a fucking wreck, blond hair all mucked up, lips cherry-red and kiss-swollen, spunk all over his exposed stomach and a bit on his t-shirt. Thank fuck none of it got on the mat.

But all Brock can manage is, “See you Tuesday,” before booking it the fuck out of there.

***

Brock is haunted by the kid all weekend, can’t even enjoy football. He goes out with the guys and feels detached, distant. After one beer, he heads back to his simple little shack of a house and goes to bed at ten, fucks his fist while thinking about shooting his load all over Steve’s pretty, pierced face.

That little punk is getting under his fucking skin.

When Tuesday rolls around, Brock can barely manage his anticipation through school. Fuck, he hasn’t felt like this since he was in high school and Laurie McCoy said yes when he asked her to homecoming. She popped her gum for a solid thirty seconds and went, “Yeah alright, I’ll go wit-cha,” before slamming her locker shut and sauntering to class, side ponytail bouncing the whole way.

After school, Steve drops his bookbag by the bleachers and toes off his shoes to meet Brock at the mat. They don’t say anything in greeting, barely even look at each other, but all Brock has to say is, “C’mon,” before Steve is swinging at him.

Brock never fights back, just blocks the blows—which is becoming increasingly difficult, the kid is a quick study—and disengages, over and over again. He’s taken by complete surprise when Steve manages to distract him with a left hook while swiping Brock’s legs from under him. Brock lands on the mat with a heavy thud and Steve straddles him at the waist. The kid stares down at him with a snarky-ass smile that Brock wants to slap off his fucking face.

“Got me where you want me finally?” Steve asks.

And _fuck_ , Brock has terrible impulse control. He surges up and flips them around until Steve’s back is on the mat and Brock is between his legs. Then he grins and says, “Now I do.”

Steve grabs him by the shirt and yanks him down for another kiss. The kid is a terrible fucking kisser—he’s sloppy and needy and all over the place—but that’s what makes it hot. That’s what makes Brock start to harden in his shorts, what makes him deepen the kiss and run his hands through Steve’s hair. He grips it, pulls it a little, and god, Steve gasps, already hard as a fucking rock against him. It’d be pathetic if it weren’t so effective at getting Brock’s dick wet.

Steve’s tongue stud clacks around in his mouth, sends a thrill through Brock’s body, and it’s enough to finally bring him back to his senses. He pulls away from Steve, leans back on his haunches, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “We can’t do this. You know that, right?”

Jesus, Steve looks at him like he just backhanded a puppy or some shit, and Brock gets the vague idea that Steve doesn’t often get told _no_.

“Your face looks like an overused bulletin board and _you’re_ telling _me_ to stop?” Steve asks.

“Watch your mouth, kid,” Brock says.

“Or you’ll what?” Steve’s eyes trail down to the bulge in Brock’s shorts, “Shut me up?”

Brock grits his teeth together, trying to calm the tension in his body. He digs his hands into his thighs to keep them to himself.

Steve’s eyes go dark and he licks his lips. Brock sees the flash of his stud, tries not to think about what it would feel like scraping against the underside of his cock.

“Never took you for such a chickenshit,” Steve says. It’s payback for all the crap Brock said about the Barnes kid, and he deserves every ounce of animosity thrown at him. “Makes sense, though. Never heard of a gym teacher worth a damn.”

“Don’t pull this shit with me, Rogers. I’m warning you.”

“What can you do? Take me to Pierce’s office?” Steve adopts Brock’s accent and says, _“Es-cuse me, sir, this here kid said some mean things to me ‘cause I ain’t gonna let him blow me.”_

“That ain’t—isn’t what I sound like.”

“You’re right. It’s way worse.”

He’s got to stop letting this kid get to him. Tomorrow, maybe. He cracks a smile at Steve and says, “That what you’re asking for? You want me to rough you up, let you choke on my cock?”

Steve drags his hand over the tent in his shorts. “It’d be my pleasure, Mr. Rumlow.”

That there...that’s the last fucking straw in Brock’s patience. He stands up and drags Steve with him by the bicep, nearly carrying him with the way he stumbles behind. Brock crosses the gym and tosses Steve into his office before closing the door behind him.

He crowds Steve against his desk and points a finger in his face. “You callin’ me a chickenshit but you don’t know where I been, alright? You tell another fuckin’ soul about this and so help me I will bleed you dry.”

Steve makes an indignant noise and rolls his eyes.

Brock slaps him across the face. Not hard, just enough to get his attention. “I’m serious. I’ve killed good men for a lot less.”

The stupid cocky smile drops into a stunned expression and he raises a hand to his cheek.

Brock reaches up and grips a handful of hair at the back of Steve’s head, yanks it back until his neck is exposed. He leans down and ghosts a hot breath over the kid’s throat, teeth vibrating with the need to bite into such a pretty piece of flesh. He can see the throb of a pulse, and all he wants is to feel it against his tongue.

“You sure you want this?” Brock grumbles, hovering. “You can leave and we’ll pretend this never happened. No harm done. No hurt feelings.”

Steve can’t nod, so he croaks out a broken, “I want it.”

“That’s my boy,” Brock says before sinking his teeth into Steve’s neck. Steve lets out a pitiful whine and jerks his hips forward for friction.

Brock reaches a hand up Steve’s t-shirt and pinches one of his nipples. His skin is soft against Brock’s rough hand, and he squirms when Brock twists it. Steve gasps against his mouth, rocks onto his hip and grips the desk behind him for purchase.

“You like that, huh?” Brock asks. “Like it when it hurts a little?”

Steve exhales a small moan of assent and says, “Bucky never...I asked for it, but he didn’t think I could take it.”

Brock huffs a laugh. “You can take it.”

“I can take it,” Steve agrees, breathless.

Brock bunches up Steve’s t-shirt around his armpits and leans down to bite at the nipple he’s been teasing, all ruddy and peaked. Steve holds back a loud moan when Brock sucks it into his mouth and flicks his tongue against it.

He moves to the other, and Steve reaches down to slip the elastic of his shorts to the base of his cock. Brock can get a good view of him now, clean cut like the American dream. He’s small in a general sense but decently sized for his tiny frame, probably isn’t even finished growing yet. Brock is surprised no part of him is pierced or tattooed under his clothes—makes sense, if they only serve as armor anyway. Gotta make himself look mean somehow, ‘cause he’s just a big guy in a tiny body.

Brock pushes Steve down to his knees and he goes willingly, a dull thunk against the linoleum. He combs his hand through Steve’s hair with one hand while palming his dick with the other. “You know how we tap out in the ring?” Brock asks.

Steve looks up at him through a fan of long, dark lashes, mouth hanging loose, eyes bright. He nods, expression open, excited, innocent. Brock squeezes the base of his dick to calm down.

“Same goes here, alright? Don’t want you getting a fuckin’ asthma attack just ‘cause you don’t know how to suck a dick.”

“I know how to suck a dick,” Steve says, defiant even when he’s on his knees.

A crooked smile stretches over Brock’s face as he pulls his cock out of his shorts. Steve’s eyes go wide as he watches Brock fist it to full hardness in front of his face. As he gently slides the tip of it across Steve’s cheek—leaving a filthy trail of precome in its wake—he says, “Prove it.”

Steve turns his head and catches the tip of Brock’s dick with his mouth, then sinks down as far as he can in one go. Of course he gags right away, then pulls off and sputters.

Brock laughs at him. “I don’t know about you, but I ain’t in a hurry. Go slow.”

With a fierce glare, Steve tries again, this time letting his jaw go slack and sucking Brock in an inch at a time. Brock clenches his jaw to keep from making noise—that fucking tongue ring is the best goddamn thing he’s ever felt in his life. The bead flicks against him, sliding around as Steve takes him in.

He finally hits the back of Steve’s throat. Steve breathes around the cock in his mouth through his nostrils, long, measured pulls of air while Brock feels his throat flex around him.

He looks up at Brock, pretty blue eyes saying, _I told you so_. Brock pulls out an inch and shoves back in. Steve lets him, doesn’t attempt to move, so Brock asks, “You want me to fuck your face?”

“Mhm,” Steve replies, and Brock can feel the vibration around his dick.

Brock puts both hands on the back of Steve’s head, holds it steady while he pulls out and sinks back in. He goes faster, snapping his hips into the kid’s slackened jaw over and over again.

Steve’s eyes squeeze shut and tears prick the corners of his eyes. He reaches up and grips Brock’s thigh with one hand while jacking himself with the other. Every time Brock pulls out, Steve exhales a moan, but it’s cut off when Brock shoves into the back of his throat again and again.

“God, you’re such a messy little slut,” Brock says, straining to keep his voice steady while he fucks into Steve’s mouth. “You got shit for brains, but goddamn you can take a cock.”

Steve groans around him, fists himself faster, breathing ragged. Tears are streaming down his face, and the tops of his cheeks and ears are bright red. His shirt is still rucked up under his arms and Brock can see his whole body flushing, wiry muscles of his chest and stomach all taut and tensed up.

“Gonna come all over yourself again, you sloppy little whore? Huh? Gonna come just from my cock in your mouth? Fuckin’ cockslut, that’s what you are. Takin’ it like a girl.”

Steve lets out a muffled cry as he comes all over his hand, body jerking through waves of pleasure, moaning all over Brock’s cock until his chin is wet with spit and precome.

Brock shallows his thrusts, panting, pressure building that he can feel all over. “Fuck, _fuck_ …” is all he can manage before he yanks Steve’s head back and pulls his dick out.

Steve keeps his mouth open and sticks out his tongue, staring up at Brock in anticipation.

Brock fucks himself in his fist. It only takes three strokes before he’s coming hard all over Steve’s mouth, his cheeks, his chin.

It slides onto his chest, down his stomach. He takes a finger and gathers up the droplet, sucks it in his mouth. Brock thinks he might die, watching some barely legal twink suck the spunk off of his own hand. Jesus.

Brock pulls his shorts back up. “No more of this, alright? You got what you wanted, now it’s over.”

Steve isn’t taking him seriously. He smiles, coy, and asks playfully, “And what is it that _you_ want?”

“For you to pass my fuckin’ class fair and square. I ain’t givin’ you an A just for getting on your knees.”

Steve’s jaw drops. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Brock grabs a towel from the rack and throws it at him. “You think this is a fucking game, Rogers? Maximoff can run a five-minute mile. Odinson can squat three-hundred pounds. Romanoff can do an advanced butterfly twist. Barton can hit a bullseye from across a football field. And it ain’t because they were born with some miraculous skill. They worked for it. I’ve been watching you for four fucking years and I ain’t ever seen you lift a damn finger unless it’s to send a text. You can’t get by in life on anger management issues and a pretty face alone.” Brock circles around his desk and takes a seat in his chair. He looks up at Steve and adds, “I know you can do more than suck a cock and take a beating. So show me.”

***

Steve doesn’t come to class on Thursday. Brock keeps an eye out for him, but he doesn’t show.

Sam Wilson does a lap past him. Brock thinks he’s seen Steve talk to him a few times, so he calls out, “Hey, Wilson!”

Sam stops and backtracks over to Brock. “Yeah, coach?”

“Where’s Rogers today?”

Sam shrugs. “Didn’t come to school. Hasn’t answered my texts either.”

Brock nods. “Thanks. Finish your laps.”

Sam nods and runs to catch up with Romanoff.

Between classes, Brock goes to his office and pulls open a filing cabinet. He rifles through his attendance records and confirms that Steve Rogers hasn’t missed a single day of school since he’s been in Brock’s class.

An ugly feeling wells up in Brock’s gut, like he used to get before bad raids with his old unit, the kind where good men went in and didn’t come back out.

When the final bell rings for the day, Brock cleans up the gym and heads to the front office. He smiles real nice to the administrative lady, Belinda, asks how she’s been and how her grandson is doing. After a few minutes of small talk, he says, “Oh, yeah, I forgot I dropped by to get a student’s home phone number. Steve Rogers? I need to talk to his mom about something.”

She puts on her glasses and takes out the massive Rolodex that functions as the student directory, then flips through it and pulls out a little card. She hands it to him and says, “Good luck getting ahold of her. She works second shift.”

Brock takes it and says with a lascivious wink, “Thanks, B. You’re the best.”

The card has Steve’s address on it, and if his mom’s not going to be home, Brock figures, hey, showing up at his house to make sure he’s alright isn’t nearly as bad as shoving his cock down the kid’s throat.

Steve only lives about a mile away in a run-down apartment building in the bad part of town. Brock parks and goes inside, runs up three flights of steps, and knocks on 3C.

He waits so long that he’s about to knock again, when Steve finally opens the door.

 _Shit._ Brock can barely recognize him. He’s been beaten to a bloody pulp, eye almost swollen shut, lip split, clutching his ribs like one or more of them is broken.

“Rumlow?” Steve asks.

Old habits die hard, so Brock doesn’t even think about it when he steps inside and cups Steve’s face in his hands, inspecting his injuries. Steve winces when he thumbs over his scraped-up cheekbone. It looks like someone slammed his face against a sink.

“You pickin’ fights again, kid?” Brock asks, prying Steve’s mouth open to make sure he didn’t chip or knock out any teeth.

Steve swats him away and takes a step back. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Bringing you your homework, what the fuck does it look like I’m doing here?”

“Don’t tell me you were worried about me,” Steve replies. His tone is mocking, but Brock thinks he hears an ounce of hope there, too.

“You haven’t missed class in four years and you have a bad habit of making enemies with mean people. I ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but even I can put two and two together. Who’d you piss off this time?”

“Nobody.”

“Alright, who pissed _you_ off?”

“Jesus Christ. _Nobody_ ,” Steve says, but it ends in a wheeze, and he clutches his ribs again, fighting against the need to double over.

“Hey, hey,” Brock says, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder.

Steve’s jaw is clenched, and underneath the bruises, he’s paling in pain. His chin trembles, and—goddammit—Brock knows that look. He gets it from freshmen who slide down the rope instead of climb down it, from kids who get smacked in the face with a dodgeball.

“C’mere, c’mere,” he says, and pulls Steve in, lets him bury his face in Brock’s shirt so he doesn’t have to see him cry. “You’re alright. We don’t gotta talk about it.”

Brock rubs a soothing hand over his back, kisses the top of his head. He doesn’t know why; Steve just makes him stupid, he thinks. Makes him wanna do nice crap, and he wonders if maybe that’s why his ex-wife left him for an investment banker. It never even occurred to him to do nice crap when they were together.

“I didn’t start it. I _didn’t,”_ Steve says, muffled in Brock’s chest. His voice cracks and Brock feels his whole body tremble in his arms.

“I believe you,” Brock replies. “Mind telling me who did?”

Steve pulls away and wipes his non-swollen eye with the back of his hand. “Why do you care?”

Brock shrugs. “I don’t, I swear. But if it’s a student, then it’s kinda my job to know.”

“It wasn’t a student.”

Brock nods. “Your ma know about this?”

Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. “She’s got it worse.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. She covers it up with makeup though.”

Brock’s hands clench into fists. “You wanna give me a name?”

“Seriously, Rumlow, leave it alone. I can handle it.”

“No doubt. You’re tough as nails, kid. But just because you can handle it doesn’t mean you should.”

Steve puts a hand on the front door, expression turning stone-cold. “We’re fine. Leave it alone.”

When he starts to shut the door, Brock catches it and pulls a pen out of his shirt pocket. He grabs Steve by the hand and writes his cell phone number on his palm. “Next time this guy comes after you, on the off-chance you think you can’t handle it, I want you to call me, okay? Any time, day or night. You can’t keep going around looking like the Mets used your face for batting practice.”

Steve’s hand feels small and frail in his own—artist’s hands—and Brock holds it for a beat too long. Then Steve pulls away and starts to close the door again. His expression is weary, gaunt, the kind of look that Brock notices in people who have seen too much shit in their lives. Steve’s too young for that look. He’s too good. “Thanks for stopping by, Rumlow. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“See you Tuesday,” Brock says, but the door closes on him mid-sentence.

***

It’s three in the morning on Saturday night when Brock gets the text. He’s always been a light sleeper, so the vibration under his pillow wakes him up. It’s from an unknown number.

_Moms gone. Im here alone with him. I dont know what to do_

Brock is already up and throwing on a pair of jeans when he gets the second text.

_Help_

He shoves the phone in his pocket and grabs his gun from the box under his bed, toes on his shoes, and arrives at Steve’s apartment in less than five minutes.

He climbs the stairs two at a time. The door is locked, but he doesn’t bother knocking. He can hear muffled talking in...the fuck is that? German? The door doesn’t have a deadbolt, so he grips the doorknob and twists it until it breaks off, then shoves the door open with his shoulder.

He keeps his gun holstered and makes his way through the apartment, following the sounds of a slab of meat getting hit with a baseball bat.

When he reaches the end of the hallway, he hears Steve shout, “Get the fuck off me, Schmidt!”

Brock maybe loses it a bit then, because instead of opening the door, he stomp-kicks it open with his boot. Splinters of wood go flying and the door slams against the wall.

The room is a wreck: furniture upturned, holes in the walls, mattress ripped apart. The only light is coming from the flickering bulb of a knocked-over lamp, and a big figure is hunched over Steve in the corner, muttering something in another language.

Brock leaps over the bed and before the guy can turn and get a good look at him, grabs him by the throat and throws him off of Steve.

Of course, that just pisses the guy off. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks in a thick German accent, scrambling back up the wall from where Brock threw him. His mouth is bleeding, and Brock feels an ounce of pride that Steve got in a least one good hit.

“Your worst fucking nightmare,” Brock replies.

Schmidt lunges at him, but Brock dodges it and uses the opening to sucker punch him. The guy doubles over, heaving, and Brock grabs him at the hips, hauls him over his shoulder, and takes him out of the bedroom.

“Rumlow,” Steve says, urgent, following behind them. Schmidt struggles in his grip, but can’t manage to escape. “Rumlow, please, wait. Don’t do this—I shouldn’t have messaged you, I just got scared, Mom will be back any minute, please—”

“Don’t worry, Rogers. I’m just taking out the trash, that’s all.” He gets to the living room and opens the sliding glass door, steps onto the balcony, and tosses Schmidt over it. The guy screams and curses as he falls, then hits the ground of the alleyway with a dull thud and falls silent.

Brock turns to Steve, smiling, and adds, “I’ll be right back.” He follows suit over the rail, hops down to the second storey, then jumps off of it and onto the pavement.

Schmidt is barely conscious, bleeding out his ears, unmoving. Brock hauls him up and throws him against the brick wall. His shirt is torn, and on his chest is a faded swastika tattoo.

Good, Brock thinks. He won’t feel even a little guilty for what he’s about to do.

“Thing is,” he begins, reeling back his fist and bringing it across Schmidt’s face, “we probably ain’t all that different, you and me.” He punches Schmidt again with the opposite fist. Schmidt’s eyes roll into the back of his head and his jaw slackens, but Brock slaps him a bit to make sure he doesn’t pass out. “The thing about us is that we’re the bad guys, yeah?” Brock socks him in the gut again. He doubles over, but Brock straightens him. “In fact, you pull this shit on almost anybody else in the world, I wouldn’t even look your way. Ain’t my business, you know? But you drew the short straw by laying a hand on someone I happen to like.”

Steve shows up then, shivering in the cold, wide-eyed and silent. He doesn’t try to stop him this time.

“They’re filthy, ungrateful—” Schmidt begins, but Brock chops the side of his hand against his windpipe.

“I’d call the cops on you, but seeing as how I used to be a cop, I know exactly what they’re gonna do.” He waits until Schmidt regains full consciousness again before cracking him across the jaw. He feels his knuckles split, and it’s the best feeling in the world, next to kissing Steve Rogers. “They’re gonna slap you on the wrist and tell you not to do it again. But there’s a reason I ain’t a cop no more...” _Crack._ “...and that’s because I killed a lot of people…” _Crack._ “...and I was real happy about it.”

Brock grabs Schmidt by the jaw and steadies his head, his forearm against the guy’s throat. “You’re gonna wanna make sure you hear this part, alright? Pay attention.” He waits until Schmidt locks eyes with him, full of rage, pupils dilated from the concussion, and continues, “You ever try to contact this kid or his ma again, I’ll slide your face down this exact same brick wall until your flesh comes off your skull. I’ll get a pair of pliers and pull off each one of your fingernails until you go hoarse from screaming. And then I’ll castrate you so you can’t get any of them white power neo-Nazi scum genes in the DNA pool.” He lifts his leg up and knees Schmidt in the balls, then lets him go. Schmidt falls to the ground, heaving in pain. Brock kicks him in the stomach for good measure, and adds, “I’ll see to it that you wish you were dead. Hell’s gonna look like paradise compared to what I’d do to you.”

When Schmidt stays down, Brock takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders before turning toward Steve. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine,” Steve replies, awed.

Brock can’t see him real well in the dimness, so he hooks an arm over his shoulders and guides him back to the front of the building. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up before your ma gets home.”

***

Steve is sitting on the closed toilet lid while Brock fishes through an impressive first aid kit. In the light of the bathroom, the kid’s injuries aren’t as bad as Brock had been expecting—no worse than a couple days ago at least, just a cut above his eye leaking a trail of blood down his face and onto his t-shirt. It looks worse than it is.

While Brock works, Steve says, “My mom broke up with him a couple weeks ago, but he won’t leave us alone. She switched to third shift and didn’t tell him, so he came over and threw a fit. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Yeah, well, you did the right thing.” Brock cleans out the cut with some rubbing alcohol, and Steve hisses in pain. “Aw, c’mon, don’t be a baby about it. You’ve had worse.”

Steve clenches his jaw and lets Brock work. When Brock fishes through the kit to find the right kind of bandages, Steve says, “You said you liked me.”

“Out of everything that just happened, _that’s_ your take-away?” Brock asks. He steadies the cut above Steve’s head with a cotton swab before thumbing a bandage over it. Steve doesn’t reply, so Brock sighs and adds, “‘Course I like you. You’re a good kid.”

“I’m not a kid. I’m eighteen,” Steve replies. “And that’s not how you meant it.”

He swears, this fucking kid has balls of brass. “What of it?” Brock mutters—he might be a cold-blooded murderer, but he’s not a liar. He wets a washcloth in the sink, then takes a knee between Steve’s legs and washes off the dried blood from his face.

Steve shrugs, leans into Brock’s touch like a cat. “Just good to know I have somebody in my corner I guess.”

Brock slows his movements, looks at Steve like the precious, special thing he is and doesn’t see in himself yet. His voice is rough when he replies, “Yeah, ‘course you do.”

Then Steve leans forward and kisses him, sweet and innocent in a way that nobody ever directs at Brock. And he’s gentle right back because the kid’s already been roughed up enough for today. Steve deepens the kiss with a little moan that nearly wrenches Brock’s heart right out of his chest, hands balled up in his shirt.

Brock hasn’t done this in...hell, maybe ever. Kissing has always been the thing that leads to sex. No reason to do it otherwise. He’s never had anybody who just wanted to express their gratitude for him—and maybe that’s his fault for never doing anything worth being thanked for, but the point is, Brock is old as dirt and this good-for-nothing punk with a heart bigger than his whole body is showing him new things.

He’s never been wanted like Steve wants him. He’s never had anybody look at him like Steve looks at him—like he’s got Brock all figured out, like Brock’s something worth looking at. He knows he’s not. He knows he’s just a dumb has-been with a bad track record and nothing in his future but day-to-day monotony and death.

And he’s okay with all that. He’s made peace with it. It’s a hell of a lot more than he probably deserves. But Steve makes him think he might be worth a little more than that, like maybe there’s more to life than remembering the names of everybody he’s ever killed and dodgeball.

Steve pulls away from him and smiles, cocky as usual but also a little shy. “I like you too.”

***

Brock doesn’t ask Principal Pierce for much, even though he knows the guy will give him whatever he wants. The high school has one of the top ranking football teams in the country all because of Brock. Track, too. And even though he could get Pierce to cut the music and arts budget to get new equipment or renovate the gym, he doesn’t, because music and art are important, and all you need for sports anyway is some blood, sweat, and tears.

Manila folder in hand with a budget spreadsheet in it—in which nobody touches music and art—Brock puts his money where his mouth is and asks Pierce for some equipment.

It has nothing to do with Steve Rogers, he tells himself. He’s just ready for a change in the curriculum is all.

***

A few weeks later, he’s standing in front of a couple dozen kids—Steve in the back on his phone, as usual, not giving Brock the time of day, which somehow simultaneously pisses him off and turns him on.

“I know we were gonna spend a few weeks on bocce ball and badminton, but considering that’s not the most practical use of our time, I’ve decided to switch things up.” He produces a pair of red foam batons from behind his back. “So instead, we’re gonna spar.”

Steve’s eyes shoot up from his phone, wide and excited. He mouths, _Really?,_ and Brock nods at him. Steve grins in a way Brock hasn’t seen since Barnes shipped off.

Needless to say, the kids love it. Brock pairs everyone up by physical ability, and they all waddle around in heavy, padded red or blue gear. He goes around the room and watches as they beat the shit out of each other with batons, gives them pointers, shows them a few things, but otherwise leaves them to it. The best way to teach someone how to swim is by tossing them in a lake, and fighting is no different—the only way to really learn is by doing it.

He circles around to Steve, who is side-stepping Stark’s unorganized chaos of blows. Steve waits for an opening and when he sees it, hits Stark square in the helmet, then sweeps his feet out from under him. Swift, efficient, concise—not unlike Brock’s own style. Brock feels a swell of pride in his chest before he moves on to help Wilson and Romanoff.

When class ends, the kids are all sweaty and groaning, which Brock finds hilarious, and it’s probably the sole reason he became a gym teacher in the first place. Steve isn’t dragging behind this time—he’s actually jogging along beside Stark and talking to him.

“Rogers!” Brock calls, and Steve stops, playfully shoves Stark while saying something Brock can’t hear, and then jogs across the gym again.

“Yeah? I mean... _yes, Mr. Rumlow?_ ” Steve asks as he approaches, giving him that dark, blatantly flirtatious look that makes Brock’s dick twitch in his pants.

The kid’s face is mostly all healed up, just the yellow shadowing of some bruises and a fading cut above his eye.

Brock clears his throat and tears his eyes away from Steve to check his clipboard. Steve has met him after school twice a week for almost two months, and the quarter is almost over. “You keep up class participation, there’s no need for extra credit.”

A flicker of hurt falls across Steve’s face. “Wait...you don’t want me to come after school anymore?”

“Want’s got nothing to do with it,” Brock mutters.

He doesn’t meet Steve’s gaze but feels his eyes on him anyway. After a few seconds, Steve replies, “Alright,” and Brock tries not to pay attention to the edge in his voice, “well...I’ll see you in class next week then.”

Brock nods, and Steve runs off to the locker room.

***

After school, Brock cleans up the gym like he usually does, makes his rounds in the locker rooms to make sure nobody left anything behind. An emptiness rests heavy in his gut and he distracts himself by thinking about the Mets line-up, which kids in his sophomore class he might tap for JVC next year, anything but angry blue eyes and a pretty mouth that says too many dirty things. He’s halfway through his sweep through the boys’ room when he hears the squeak of door hinges.

“Detention’s in the library,” he calls, making his way through the labyrinth of lockers.

Steve is standing by the door, looking even smaller than he usually does. His bravado is gone and replaced by vulnerable sheepishness, hands in his pockets, looking everywhere but at Brock. He tries to mask it by shrugging and saying, “It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

The bottom drops out of Brock’s stomach and he grabs Steve by the shirt, hauls him against the lockers, and kisses him hard and dirty like he hasn’t kissed anyone in years.

Steve hauls himself up, and Brock grabs him by the thighs so that his legs wrap around his waist.

Fucking teenagers—Steve’s already hard, grinding against Brock like he can’t get enough of him. Brock trails open-mouthed kisses down his neck and shamelessly gropes his ass.

“Want you to fuck me,” Steve says, catching his breath between little hitched moans that go straight to Brock’s dick.

Brock laughs against his throat. “Don’t take this the wrong way, kid, but I’d rip you in half.”

In response, Steve takes one of Brock’s hands and shoves it in the back of his shorts. Brock slides down and presses at his hole and— _fuck._

Steve is already stretched open and slicked up.

Brock can’t help it—he slides the tip of his finger in and groans, forehead resting on a locker. His cock is so hard it hurts, and he says, “You did this? You fucked yourself open thinking about me?”

“I’ve been fucking myself thinking about you since I was fifteen,” Steve replies. “Your sex ed class was torture for me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Brock says, fucking his finger in and out, grinding against Steve in a steady, slow rhythm. “I still can’t fuck you though. We don’t got—”

Steve scrambles in the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a condom.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Brock groans, and all semblance of self-control he may have once had gets tossed out the window.

He pulls his finger out of Steve’s ass and lifts him away from the lockers, lays him down gently on one of the benches in the aisle. He doesn’t even bother taking Steve’s shorts all the way off, just pulls them down so that they’re bunched around his thighs, legs up and resting on Brock’s shoulders.

Brock pulls his cock out of his pants and rips open the condom packet with his teeth, spits out the foil and rolls it on himself.

He fucks himself in his fist and presses a finger into Steve, then a second to make sure he’s ready. It’s tight with just two fingers, and a stretch with a third, but Steve says, “Just fuck me already. I can handle it.”

Brock smiles, coy, and repeats, “You can handle it.”

He pulls his fingers out and lines his dick up, presses into Steve an inch at a time. Steve tenses up, so Brock bends him in half and kisses him, rubs a hand up and down his thigh to get him to relax. When he does, Brock presses in a little deeper, and Steve reaches behind himself to grip the bench.

“God, you’re such a slut for it. Look at you takin’ my cock like a girl. You like this, huh? Like being fucked wide open?”

Brock bottoms out and Steve shudders around him, cock leaking onto his stomach. He pulls out and pushes back in, slow at first, and then speeds up until he’s gripping the kid’s narrow hips and pounding into him.

Steve reaches down to touch himself but Brock swats his hand away. “If you’re gonna come, it’s gonna be on my cock alone.”

“But I’ve never, I’m not sure I can—” Steve begins, but Brock changes his angle and Steve cries out.

“Better?” Brock asks, and continues pounding into him until Steve goes completely pliant, moaning out a litany of curses.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , I’m gonna…” Steve starts, words swallowed by a loud moan.

“That’s right, good boy, comin’ all over yourself like a messy little whore.”

Steve comes with a shout that he muffles in his fist, back arching, pulsing around Brock’s dick. Brock slams into the point of no return and has to pull out. He stands from the bench and yanks the condom off, then hovers above Steve’s face and jacks himself in his fist.

Steve looks up at him with wild blue eyes, a storm-covered ocean that Brock could probably drown in if he let himself. He comes in a few strokes, shoots his load all over Steve’s open mouth, long white stripes on his face and neck.

He takes a knee and presses his mouth against Steve’s, desperate and hungry, tasting himself on him. It’s primal, possessive, greedy, the way he kisses Steve. And Steve gives as good as he gets, rough and flicking his tongue stud anywhere it can reach.

The kiss slows down into something softer, bittersweet, more affectionate and satisfying than Brock is used to. It makes him think he’s been kissing wrong his whole damn life.

Eventually he pulls away, and Steve says, “If taking cock were an Olympic sport, I’d have a gold medal.”

Brock’s face breaks into a grin and he laughs, slaps Steve on the thigh and says, “You’re damn right you would.”

***

**Epilogue**

Brock owns one suit. And unless he has a wedding or a funeral to go to, he wears it only once a year.

For prom.

He used to hate chaperoning because it reminded him too much of his stint as a bodyguard, but now he doesn’t mind it so much. It’s nice seeing such good, hardworking kids having a little fun.

He didn’t figure Steve for the prom-going type, but Brock eyes him in the corner of the decorated gymnasium in hushed conversation with—

_Oh._

It’s Barnes. Even though the room is dark, there’s no one else it could be, because instead of a tux or a suit like all the other guys, the kid is in uniform.

Steve uses that moment to look up and spot Brock. He beams, and takes Barnes by the hand, dragging him over.

“Rumlow!” Steve says when they approach.

“Heya, kid,” Brock replies, smiling despite the ugly feeling in his gut.

“You remember Bucky. He’s on leave.”

Barnes smiles at him in that charming way he always had. Brock let him skip class to go to the nurse’s office for no damn reason more times than he could count because of that smile. And even though the guy is happy and bigger than he was when he left, there’s still a shadow in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Good seeing ya again, Barnes. How’s the desert treating you?” Brock asks.

“Not bad. Hot. Boring. Cool guns, though.”

“That’s what counts, right?”

“Yeah, definitely.” He turns his attention to Steve and says, “I’m gonna go get us some punch, okay?”

“Sure,” Steve replies, giving him a wide, dopey smile. If somebody could bottle such a sappy fucking expression, they’d make a million bucks.

“Good seeing you, Mr. Rumlow,” Barnes says, and kisses Steve on the cheek before heading to the punch table.

Steve and Brock both stare after him as he walks away.

“You picked a good one, looks like,” Brock says.

“I’m a lucky guy,” Steve says, turning back to him. They fall silent, hands in their pockets, until Steve adds, “The thing between he and I—”

“You don’t gotta explain it,” Brock replies. “I get it. He’s the real deal.”

“But I mean, he’s only gonna be here a week, and I have an art show this summer up in Buffalo. I was hoping I could find someone to go with.” Steve looks at his feet, toes the fault line with his shoe.

“You askin’ me on a date, Rogers?”

Despite the darkness, Brock can see Steve blush all the way to the tips of his ears. He shrugs in response.

Brock claps him on the shoulder, squeezes it and lets his hand linger. “We’ll see about it, huh?”

Steve looks up at him and grins in the way that makes Brock’s heart flutter in his chest. He stares at him a beat too long before he clears his throat and asks, “So how’s your ma doing?”

“Good,” Steve replies. “Schmidt hasn’t contacted her at all.”

“Smart move.”

Silence falls between them until Steve says, “Alright, well I’m going to go find Bucky. I’ll see you at graduation?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Brock replies with a wink.

Steve grins at him again before running off to catch up with Barnes.

Brock keeps an eye on them the rest of the dance. Barnes eventually drags Steve onto the dance floor with their friends. They laugh and shout over the music together, and when it slows down, Barnes pulls Steve in for a dance with just the two of them. Then he kisses Steve, deep and sweet.

It ruins something inside of Brock, but it’s no worse than all the other broken bits already there. If he were twenty years younger or Steve were twenty years older, maybe he’d be the one kissing Steve like that.

Or maybe no matter what universe they’re in, Steve would have always been too good for him.

The music picks up and Steve looks at Brock from across the room, and Brock knows right then that after graduation, even if Steve does call him or text him or ask to hang out, Brock won’t reply. He’s done some shitty things in his life, but he’d never be the cement shoes keeping a kid down.

Steve smiles at him, wan and a bit sad. Brock smiles back the same way. It’s the end. They both know it is.

But it was fun while it lasted.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the person who dubbed this ship "terrifying", [shiphitsthefan](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan).
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/betty_days).


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